Long Have I Wandered
by Noel.Guscott
Summary: Please review! : Post Brisingr: A wanderer is suddenly swept into the ordeals of the war that has swept the land. His past and his ideals he once stood for leads him to make a final decision that will change his life, and Alagaesia's fate forever.
1. Welcome Back

Long Have I Wandered; But No More

An Inheritance Cycle Story by

Noel Guscott

Synopsis: During/Post-Brisingr. _Tikara Mela is not known to many, but to those who have heard of him he is simply known as 'The Wanderer'. This wanderer has a past not many would guess of a man like him, but new hope emerges once he catches a glimpse of Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer flying over the edge of the Hadarac Desert._

Hope. Hope was a trivial thing in Tikara's eyes. One that he had long since given up on, for many good reasons… _It never should have been this way! Why does it have to be this way? Oh, I am so alone… alone!_

Tikara usually wandered the western shores without pause, but since the outbreak of the Great War, has named it, the west was no safe anymore. He had decided to stay away from battle and from those whose curiosity got the better of them, for surely a man garbed all in black and dark greens, trying to stay away from prying eyes, would draw eyes upon themselves? If someone could catch a glimpse of him, that is what would happen.

Since this outbreak of war, Tikara wandered the desert for the second time in his life. He had not always been known as 'The Desert Wanderer', or the 'Traveller of the Shores'. No, once he had been a different man, a better man. A man – an elf with a life! With a mate, with hopes and dreams, with likes a dislikes; without revenge or despair. _But damn Galbatorix for it all! The world would be so much different today if he had not ever been…oh, my love how I miss thee. Oh Ilian._

Tikara was many hundreds of years old. But because he was drowned in his own sorrows, he can barely remember over eight hundred years ago, when he was first made a Rider. It had been a glorious day, when his egg first hatched and he named his Dragon. She had been beautiful and graceful and purely magnificent, even at birth! Ilian, which meant happiness, had been a purple dragon. And she was the heart of his life.

But no more! He now wandered the Earth, even after the fall, without Galbatorix knowing, hunting down anyone who had any connection with the Empire and his death. Revenge was what drove him, always and forevermore, since Ilian had died.

"All this is making me weary. I must rest," he said out loud to himself. As the sun began to kiss the horizon, Tikara gathered what wood he could at the edge of the desert and found shelter in a large oak with a hole at it's base, large enough for Tikara to sleep in, and he created a fire. He then found what fruit he could, and taking some bread from his bags he ate until he could eat no more, and then drifted off into a waking sleep of which all elves had. But his were filled with only the worst things of his life, but he slept on, enduring that of which he had endured since the Fall.

***

Morning came quickly, and Tikara awoke to the sound of the wind blowing on the outskirts of the damned desert.

That morning, Tikara had had enough of the desert for over a decade, he decided. He knew he was in the north part of the Hadarac, and he decided now he wanted to make his way back to the Western shore, to wander the remainder of his days; if they ever would end, anyway.

Gathering his things, Tikara began his trek westward, to the shores awaiting him beyond.

As he exited the wasteland a few hours later, Tikara thought he heard something – a familiar, deafening and exciting sound, but it quickly faded and was no more, and he thought nothing more of it as he continued his seemingly long journey from the desert to the Western Coast.

***

Two days later, Tikara found himself around 10 miles, if not even, away from Gil'ead. Even before he had come this close he had heard the cries of battle, and he could not turn away from at least catching a glimpse of the battle.

With the grace that was bestowed to him as an elf at birth, and thus even more so as a Rider, he quickly climbed up a steep peak until he got a slight aerial view of the once great city. What he saw shocked him.

What first drew his attention was all the soldiers on the ground. He could tell, not only by the armour and the way the soldiers were assembled, that it had to be the elves that were doing this. But surely his people had not finally marched out of Du Weldenvarden to war? But, as it seemed, they had. The second thing that drew his attention was the battle raging in the sky above. A golden dragon, the one he knew to be Glaedr, and his Rider, the Mourning Sage, or Oromis-elda to Tikara, were doing battle with a Red dragon and it's Rider. Surely it was not Morzan? He had been dispatched years ago. Then Tikara though of Morzan's family, and suddenly it occurred to him: _could it be his son?_ He thought in alarm.

He wanted to help, but he knew from this distance he would be no more than a mere nuisance or thorn in the Red Dragon's back. Then suddenly, he need not help anymore.

The voice of the evil King, Galbatorix, suddenly eminated from the voice of the Red Rider just as Glaedr was about to destroy the Red Dragon and his Rider after a long and fierce battle. Tikara listened, and tears welled in his eyes as he knew Oromis and Glaedr were soon going to meet their own end. The last of the Elders – last of the Great Dragon Riders, gone! He saw Glaedr and Oromis plunge to their deaths minutes later, as Red Dragon and Rider began to retreat toward Ilirea – that was the only name Tikara would call it by, or the Citadel of Galbatorix. As the Red Dragon and his Rider flew overhead, Tikara mustered his strength, and with all his might he said one simple word, and he threw the spell toward the Red Rider screaming, "BRISINGR!"

The Red Dragon nor his Rider saw what had been coming. They suddenly were engulfed in flames, a purple flame which burned the Rider and Dragon for over 10 seconds before finally the Rider put it out and the Dragon began to struggle to fly back in the direction of Ilirea.

Satisifed with what he had done, Tikara lay there basking in the pleasure that he had just done one of the forces of Good's enemies a VERY serious blow.

_Imagine what I could do with the elves once more? I could help them greatly, and help our new Rider… but I am alone! Oh, Ilian…_

Sorrow overcame Tikara once again, and he bade farewell to his people and Gil'ead as he began his journey to the southern coast, now, fearing that the elves would discover him if he ventured west any longer.

***

Another two days had gone by since Tikara had wounded Red-scales and his Rider, and he had made it about three quarters to the way of the southern-most coast. Knowing that he had to avoid Empire territory from now on, as he had been hearing things from the trees that there were hostilities in these areas, he began his trek to the south west, now, managing a path just north and in sight of Dras-Leona.

As he traversed the hidden paths north of the town, he pondered deeply about everything: himself, his past, his future, and why he lived.

_Ilian, you were my life, _my _heart of hearts. I have been without you for too long, my sweet. I have not done enough to avenge your death. I am the last of our kind, now – the last Free Rider. But yet a Rider without a dragon am I. What do I have to live for, now? What does my future hold for me? Will I eventually die, or will I have to live on well into the eons to come…what can I do?_

Suddenly, Tikara was pulled out of his thoughts and to the present. Something caught his senses – he had heard something call out in the distance. He knew naught what it was, so it must still be far off, since his hearing was elven, after all. Then he heard it again, and this time he could distinguish what all of it was. First the sound of war drums, then the clatter of armor as horses and men alike marched toward the town of Dras-Leona. And then, a roar like no roar he had heard in a long, long time. The roar of a proud, strong dragon; a dragon who was free!

Suddenly, what seemed to be a blue ball shot into the air and flashed in the sun. It was a dragon and a Rider all right, but not Red-scales and his evil Rider, or no. This one was blue, a brilliant blue like he had seen in the wild dragons of old! Her scales, he derived from its underbelly, glistened like a million sapphires under the glow of the sun. Beautiful was she, and proud and strong and healthy she was.

With her Rider leading the charge, the army descended upon Dras-Leona like a wave and did not stop for anything. The blue dragon attacked the city walls and began to maim the outer defenses as the Rider wrought his own line of destruction as he also managed to protect some of the men of which he fought with.

As Tikara looked down at the glorious yet chaotic sight, tears were brought to his eyes. He knew that was once he and Ilian. And he knew that he still had the strength to fight in such battles as these.

Looking down at his purple bladed sword, celöbra, he contemplated whether or not he should fight once again. _Should I do what is right, or should I do what is moral? Should I kill for the good of all, or should I stay away for the good of no one but myself?_

Long had he been the Wanderer, he decided then. He pulled out his sword, lifted it into the air and screamed such a battle-cry that even when Blue-Scales roared, all those below could hear his mighty signal that he was going to fight. And with tears streaming down his eyes for joy that there is a free Rider, and sorrow that he had to kill in the name of good once again, he charged toward the city.

Battle and chaos was waiting. Could he best it? The decision was made: he had too.


	2. The Return

Just like every other solider on every other battlefield, battle encompassed and surrounded Tikara. It was one with him, and he was one with the battle. The clashing of swords, beating of the violent war drums and the sight and smell of total carnage hung strong on him. He was one with the battle, and he would not stop. The battle had overcome him, and now that he had exposed himself for all to see and wonder at his identity, he thought he might as well do his part.

Tikara easily cut his way through the throng of soldiers, confused as ever at the rear flank, wondering exactly who and what he was. With his cloak billowing behind him, Tikara slashed, parried, cut and blocked his way through the soldiers. They were no match to his skill with a blade or to his endurance. Not only did he have great endurance, but he had stored almost as much energy as he could remember into the gem of his sword. Celöbra was his life now, and the one thing that kept him alive, with Tikara's horrible limp and all.

As he finally made it full on into the rear flank of the Imperial Soldiers, he was really beginning to pick up the pace. He whirled around almost every second or so, blocking and slashing and doing every known swordsman technique that he knew, and even improvising at deadly speeds. With a deadly grace he was beginning to create a gap in the rear line, one which, he realized by the roar, the blue dragon and her rider were going to take advantage of.

As Tikara took his first injury, a small gash in the ribs as he continued to block most offensive manoeuvres on him, beside him a whirl of heat arose just after the blue dragon not only used her deadly blue fire on the soldiers, but she also grabbed as many as she could with her mighty claws and even her maw and threw them about like rag dolls.

The rear line was in retreat back to the main body, and Tikara managed to take out a few more soldiers before he was faced with a more pressing matter: managing not to be killed by the blue dragon. She snarled fiercely at him as he rose his sword and prepared not only his mental defences, but his magical defenses as well from her fire. He perfectly timed this, because two powerful presences grazed his mental barriers, but realizing it was impenetrable and well learned, they retreated into their own minds.

"Who are you, elf?" asked the Rider on the blue-dragon, his sword in a ready position just the same.

Not wanting to give away the identity he had kept secret for over twenty years, Tikara replied, "And why should I tell you, Rider? One way or another I feel I will be put on trial, or if I simply refuse to tell you all together, you will attempt to kill me –"

"I will kill you if I have too," replied the Rider. "It is a harsh punishment, but those whom do not wish to give their identity to the Varden or to me will face it. Now what is your name, elf?"

"It is Rider to you, Rider. Did you not notice my sword." Sheathing his sword, Tikara took a step closer and said, "I am the Wanderer, Rider. I am one who has lost something that will never return, and I have longed for a purpose in life. Revenge is what now drives me, Rider; it has swept me up like the worst blizzard ever could. But enough trivial talking, we have work to do!"

Tikara unsheathed his sword and quite literally jumped back into the fray as he heard the Rider behind him say, "We'll finish this later."

As Tikara began his onslaught of carnage once more, he barely noticed in his peripheral vision that Rider and Dragon departed to another part of the battle, leaving Tikara safe from any more trouble on their side, for now. He quickly parried a blow from a brave yet foolish human soldier who tried to attack him head on and kicked the man a few feet out of the way. Then, Tikara dropped his sword and looked about him.

The city was a mess. Fire was everywhere and it's walls were slowly crumbling. The victorious men on the 'good' side as Tikara would deem it for now were slowly overtaking what was left of the city under the banner of the blue dragon and her Rider. The battle seemed to have been won.

**

Quite some time later, Tikara found himself sitting in the now dead and deserted city. He had helped win this battle, but now he felt the lack of life around him that this battle seemed to have caused. Every plant that was trampled, every man, innocent or not that was killed, and every animal who was caught in this onslaught, Tikara could all feel the pain of their loss.

As he mourned not only for those lost during this battle, but for his Ilian, for the second time now the blue Dragon and Rider appeared to him not far off. Instinctively, Tikara put his hand on the sheath of his sword as the rugged looking elf-man walked toward him, his own hand most likely drifting toward his own sword without thought.

"Who are you, elf with a Rider blade, and why are you here?"

Tikara took a moment to examine this Rider before him. He was most definitely a man, though because he was a Rider he had been transformed somewhat. But such a transformation was not natural. The man looked as though he was a very rugged elf, still bearing stubble on his face, but the graceful and thin face of an elf was there. His ears were pointed and slightly elongated, and his body was simply as fit as was possible for him. He was a Rider transformed, but how he knew not.

"I am what you once were, stubborn Rider," Tikara began as he stood up. He heard the Dragon growl at him, and he snapped, "Enough with you and let me talk.

"I was once where you were, Rider. I was proud, strong, full of energy and able to lead armies into battle, though back in the old days it wasn't needed. I have been known as the Wanderer since the Fall, young one, but no longer. I must shed this title, this name I have made for myself - no matter how hard I try, it just can't be who I am no longer. With the death of Oromis-elda, I am the last of the Great Riders before the Fall. I lost my dragon long ago, however, because of the Betrayer… but I must push on – I live for revenge now."

Tikara stood up and unsheathed his sword. Sticking it into the air, letting the last of the fire and light from the sky reflect of the perfect blade, he screamed for all to here, "I AM TIKARA MELA, LAST OF THE RIDERS OF OLD!"

He seemed to have let the world know. His secret was out, and even the King locked up in his citadel should've heard the cry. And Tikara was coming.


End file.
